Short story. Short story. Stort shory.
You can see I'm quite inspired for that assignment.
We speak for hours each day, literally. The "speaking," perhaps, is more literary than literal. I can't handle the phone for too long. It won't allow me to multitask as easily as I wish.
I want to be creative. I watch a boy run around the corner of the house, across the small and tidy green yard. It was the same boy I'd seen another day, engaged in intense plastic gun stalking with another little boy. I'd admired the latter's boldness to seek out his vice.
The sun yet hints of summer as it eases down. Something long and blue is raised in the boy's hand. He turns to the side yard. A blond girl bounces up, red lightsaber in hand. Without shouts or words exchange, plastic hits plastic. They begin to duel.
I watch and, somehow, feel real.